Nightmares
by PiecesOfEight
Summary: The memory of Black with the knife haunts Ron's dreams late into his life. But the realization of what it means when the dream changes, will affect his life forever.
1. Part Two

_**A/N: Here it is, straight from my brain to your internet. Another story (yay me!) Review if you please, and please Review. :)**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Ron Weasley, Hugo, Rose, Hermione ('Mione), Harry, Sirius Black, or anything else in this story affiliated with the Harry Potter empire. I do, however, own the words you are about to read, in the order you are about to read them.**

_I woke from sleep, kicking out my legs fruitlessly as he stood over me, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. His grin was ghoulish, the charm that it may have once held sucked out by years of imprisonment. I tried to scream, but his hand shot out instantaneously, holding the sound within the cavern of my mouth. I found myself unable to move, my body frozen in fear and in captivation as he lowered himself towards me._

_Then the knife came out._

_My eyes widened in horror as he pulled the shiny blade out from a fold in his robes, as he lifted it high in the air above my body. Something rustled on my chest, and it would have scared me half to death if I hadn't been there already. Four tiny feet scrambled over my rigid frame and scarpered off the bed. _

_The look in his eyes was terrifying. His thin lips opened, stretching his gaunt face into a silent curse. He removed his hand from my mouth, turned away and ran for it as the scream, no longer bottled up, released. _

XxXxX

Night after night I would wake from this dream, an imitated memory from that night in third year when Sirius Black got in. I would never admit it to Harry (recurring nightmares were his _thing_, after all), or Hermione. Nobody would think anything of it. Nobody would think twice about it, they would all just think it was leftover fear, or post-traumatic stress.

Hell, _I_ didn't think it meant anything special. I really didn't. It fell somewhere on my priority list beneath "Quidditch" and "Buy new socks" (but somewhere above "Potions Essay".) I would ignore it when I woke from it, and every night I would go back to sleep, dozing peacefully for the next five hours, or seven hours on weekends.

So one night at the end of December, when I woke from the dream, I really could care less. Over the years, it had become one of those things you just _do_, like brushing your teeth, or hugging your Great Aunt Tessie when she came to visit. I gave my head a quick shake, lay back in my bed, stared up at my favourite Chudley Cannons player for about ten minutes, then closed my eyes to drift back off into more uninterrupted shut-eye.

_The knife raised high in the air and paused, pointing at my throat. He brought it down slowly, tauntingly, to rest at the base of my Adam's apple. He spoke in a low, raspy voice. "Scream. I dare you." My mouth opened in response, the skin of my neck stretching to meet the sharp point of the knife. I quickly clenched my jaw shut, refusing to unlock it even for a second._

_He threw his head back in raucous laughter. The other boys should have woken at the sound, but they remained asleep, ever peaceful in whatever dreams had captured their minds. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Harry's form, hunched beneath his cover, facing away, the sheets rising and falling steadily as he breathed. _

_I looked back up into the eyes of my conqueror, and saw some of the light return as he played his game. The knife slid slowly along my clavicle, the blade icy on the skin but never penetrating. He traced patterns with the sharp point down my chest, cutting open the shirt as he went. I could do nothing but stare back at him, paralyzed. I wouldn't move. I couldn't move. He had won._

XxXxX

My eyes snapped open as something very solid and very human collided with my legs, pinning them to the mattress. "Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy!!!!" The voice was high and shrill, I knew it at once to be Rose. I sat up, smiling sleepily.

"Mornin' Rosie." Her face blurred into view, smiling brightly, the gaping hole where her two front teeth should be a the only black mark on her perfect face.

"Daddy, why are you still sleeping? It's _Christmas._" She tugged on the blankets folded haphazardly on my lap. Her smile was plastered among her pale features, and it wasn't coming off. One of the many things I love about my daughter. No matter what's going on around her, she can always smile.

"Christmas?" I gasped teasingly. Her mouth opened in a laugh at my joke. It wasn't a joke, but I'd never tell her that. I'd thought it was the 23rd, honestly. "Well, honey, let's go!" I picked her up off my legs and swung them out over the side of the bed before carrying her, giggling the whole way, down the stairs and into the living room. I set her down in front of the couch and she crawled immediately towards the tree to scavenge for presents labeled with her name. I sat, sinking into the cushions of the couch.

Hermione's hand found my knee and I turned to meet her with a kiss. She looked concerned. "You alright, Ron?"

I nodded slowly. "I'm fine, 'Mione."

"Okay…" She conceded. Her look of concern did not disappear, but waned until it was almost hidden from view. I squeezed her hand reassuringly. _We'll talk later. Enjoy Christmas._ I prayed she got my message.

I turned back to watch Rose distribute the presents one by one, to her brother Hugo, 'Mione and myself, and herself in turn. Eventually, the tree produced no more wrapped goodies, and Rose and Hugo busied themselves with the toys they had received. I didn't know what they were. I didn't know what presents I'd unwrapped myself. I wasn't paying attention.

I didn't understand it. There had never been a "Nightmare – Part Two" before. It didn't make any sense, not really. I tried to focus on something else, every time my attention wandered I returned to the dream, tried to puzzle out its meaning. 'Mione, bless her, was so wrapped up with the two little ones that she didn't press me.

I should have let it go. I shouldn't have lingered on the dream. Most of all, I should have just told Hermione right then and there when she dragged me into the kitchen to pester my with her questions. But I didn't. You know what I did? I sat and thought about it. All morning, and partway through the afternoon.

Then the mail came.

_**A/N: Short chapter, I know. More coming later, when I'm not unwrapping presents of my own (hehe.) Reviewers adored. 3, POE.**_


	2. Writing

_**A/N: Another chapter, sorry for the delay! Review if you please, and please Review. :)**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I do, however, own the words you are about to read, in the order you are about to read them. And I'm damn proud of it.**

I thank my lucky stars everyday that Pigwidgeon actually grew… eventually. He didn't stay a tiny little pocket owl forever (just for all of MY adolescent life). Eventually, after much feeding and much annoying chattering, he grew into full owl-sized proportions and learned to be dignified (which means shutting up now and then and letting people think while he's in the room.) Ginny was disappointed; after all, she thought he was very cute. But really, when you see a grey tennis ball struggling to support a box the size of your own head…

But yes, Pigwidgeon did grow up, around the same time I did. And now he came soaring through the window, just high enough to evade the fingers of the little ones grabbing at his tail feathers below. He landed quite gracefully on the counter and dropped the many envelopes in his beak, holding out his leg so 'Mione could untie the scroll on his leg.

"Christmas cards from your family, Ron. All of them." She grabbed he bag of Owl Treats behind her, sliding the stack of envelopes across the counter to where I sat. Pig ate a couple of treats gratefully before flying out again to deliver our cards to the extended family. I flipped through the multi-colored envelopes lamely – _Mum and Dad, Bill and Fleur, Harry and Ginny, George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey, Charlie_—until I found one interesting enough to stop. The thin, slanting handwriting was not familiar to me. I hastened to open it, sliding my fingers underneath the flap. "Who's that from?"

I looked up quickly, surprised to hear Hermione, though I knew she was there. I chuckled inwardly at my own reverie. "No idea, hon." She crossed the kitchen and plucked it from my fingers, scrutinizing the writing. Shrugging, she handed it back and turned back to the pancakes cooking themselves on the stove.

I had just gotten the flap unsealed when she turned back to face me and leant on the counter. "What's going on?"

I looked up, startled again. Merlin, was I jumpy today. Having no idea what she was talking about, I half-shrugged, speaking in a casual tone. "What d'you mean?"

She scoffed. I hated it when she scoffed. She made me feel so stupid, especially when we were kids. "You slept in this morning." I didn't see the point. She rolled her eyes. "_This_ morning. It's Christmas. When do _you_ forget Christmas?"

I shrunk back defensively. "I've just been stressed. Work." She looked unconvinced. It was always difficult to reason with Hermione when she'd made her mind up about something. Especially when we were kids.

Everything was harder when we were kids.

"Really, it's just work. There's nothing going on."

"If there's nothing going on at work then what's the matter?" I gave her a look, knowing that she knew that wasn't what I had meant. Knowing that she knew that I knew that she knew that. She sighed. "Okay, fine. Then what about _after_? Y'know, when you spaced out during presents."

I mustered up my best 'I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about' looks and crossed my arms indignantly. "I was not spaced out during presents." I was totally spaced out during presents.

"Really? What did Harry get you?" I looked up at her triumphant smirk.

I tried to remain solid in my argument. "You really think I don't know what my _best friend_ got me for Christmas?"

She considered that for all of half a second then nodded. "Yeah, I do."

I looked up at her for another minute or so before sighing, defeated. "Okay, I don't know what my best friend got me for Christmas." I looked down at my hands, fiddling with the envelope I was still holding. She was still waiting for me to tell her what was wrong, so, of course, I made something up. "Really, nothing's wrong. I'm just tired, from work. Not really in the 'Christmas spirit' today." I must have looked more miserable than I thought I did (perhaps from my not-so-restful sleep last night), for she let it go right then and there.

She really shouldn't have, but I wasn't about to say anything.

XxXxX

We had dinner at my parents' house that night. It wasn't anything unusual, for Christmas at least. Looking at the table, laden in all its Christmas glory, however, made me feel an unexpected pang of guilt. Hermione was right. I had neglected the Christmas season this year. It wasn't really fair at all, to my family and my friends, and certainly not to me. I loved Christmas. Christmas was my time of year. Or, it had been, every other year.

As I came to this realization, I felt more and more like a fraud. Every minute seated at that table with smiling faces all around me made me feel much, much worse about the prick I was being. They'd never _tell_ me I was being a prick (well, Ginny might), but I knew that I was.

I was spacing again, staring blankly at my plate, wallowing in my epiphany. Somebody elbowed me in the side and I started. My head snapped to the side, my face screwed up in an expression to guilt the hell out of whoever had the nerve to elbow me while I was 'enjoying' Christmas dinner.

It was Harry. Oh, okay.

"Hey, mate, what's up?"

People really needed to stop asking that. I mean, it wasn't like I was about to come right out and say 'So, I'm still dreaming about your godfather standing over me with a knife and it's scaring the heck out of me to the point where I can't focus on _Christmas_.' So I shrugged. "Nothing, really. What about you? Hey Gin, pass the potatoes, will ya?"

Harry gave me a look. "About the same. It's Christmas, my only time of year to relax."

"I hear you." I grabbed the bowl from my sister, grateful for some excuse to look down again.

Harry raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Do you? Hermione said you were really stressed out, or something. Because of work." Crap. Harry knew I hadn't been at work this week. "Wanna tell me what's really going on?"

I heaved a sigh. "_Nothing_ is going on. Just been feeling a bit… off, is all."

"Yeah… you are looking a bit peaky."

"Thanks mate." I returned to my potatoes. I didn't say another word beyond the required "thanks for the gift I really loved it" and the occasional guess at a game of charades.

XxXxX

I turned over, looking at the clock. It was 2:30, and I still hadn't managed to sleep. Was I afraid to return to a world where my thirteen year-old self was being tormented by a not-so-mass-murderer? I sighed and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was hungry, that's all. I'd eat something and get back to bed, and return to my crazy dreamland like I did every other night.

The kitchen was quiet. Well, of course it was quiet; it was 2:30 in the morning. The other three members of my family were asleep, _soundly_ asleep. No stupid nightmares to bother them. I went over to the fridge and pulled out the milk, placing it on the counter as I went in search of a cup. Finding one, I kicked the door of the fridge closed and began pouring my milk. I allowed my eyes to wander as I did this, and they finally came to rest on an envelope. The off-white envelope I had opened this morning and the only card that had remained unread.

My hand froze, holding the jug still poised over the cup as milk flowed into it. I wondered briefly who had sent it. The writing was familiar; perhaps something I'd seen when I was younger.

Like when I was thirteen.

Like the day I got Pigwidgeon. It was difficult to remember how tiny he was exactly in comparison to his grand stature now, but I could see him as clearly as if I was thirteen all over again. Bobbing outside the window, twittering like a buffoon, excited to be delivering the tiny scrap of parchment.

And the writing on the parchment, it was—

Milk spilled off the counter and onto the floor, splashing my bare feet and wakening me from my stupor. I slammed the jug down on the counter, cursing, and crossed to the cupboards on the other end of the kitchen, pulling out a cloth. I dropped to my knees on the floor and began wiping frantically, mind still reeling. That writing, I'd know it anywhere.

Sirius Black was writing to me.

_**A/N**: **Which begs the question, why? Want to find out? Lemme know!**_


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